


Memoria I.

by x_art



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: While I finish the sequel to Ignis et Diluvium, I thought I'd post some very short Newt POV stories. They won't be posted in any order (in terms of Newt's age) and I'll probably rewrite them as I go.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

Six

 

 

 

_It’s one of his earliest memories._

_One would think that the more a memory is recalled and examined, the clearer it would remain but that’s not the case. At least for him it’s not, because this memory is fuzzy and vague and he’s never quite sure that what he remembers is actually what he remembers:_

Ignoring his mother’s order that he is to stay in bed because he’s still getting over his cold, Newt waits until Nanny Elspeth has left and then slides out of bed. He pulls on his slippers and creeps downstairs. The big hall is empty but the painting of Great-grandfather Arsenios spies him and calls out, _‘You there!’_ Newt shivers because Great-grandfather Arsenios is mean and loud but he doesn’t stop. He runs to the door and then down the steps, across the drive, and around the house to the woods.

It’s cool amongst the trees and he slows down, thinking he should have at least worn a robe. It’s too late, though, so he keeps going. When he gets to the hippogriff enclosure, he doesn’t hesitate—he slips through the railing and hides behind a tall pine.

His mother is working with her latest acquisition, a young hippogriff by the name of Calvin. Fascinated by the creature that smells of fire and musk, and is the color of smoke, Newt stares. He’s never been in the enclosure without his mother right by his side before and he’s anxious. But he can’t quite see and so he moves nearer. Eyes on the creature and not where he’s going, Newt isn’t careful and he accidentally steps on a soft, piney twig. The muffled sound is like a crack of lightening in the still forest and quick as quick, the hippogriff turns his head.

“Newton,” says his mother very calmly, without glancing around. “If that’s you, don’t stare. Back up very slowly.”

It's proof that his mother _does_ have eyes in the back of her head like Thee has always said, but Newt doesn’t move because he can’t. He’s suddenly frozen, terrified, unable to look away from Calvin’s yellow gaze. Even though Calvin is young, he is so much taller than the drawings in the books and his talons and beak are so much longer. Newt doesn’t cry because tears are for babies and he’s six and eleven months and therefore _not_ a baby. But his face gets hot and his throat tightens and he thinks he just might cry, anyway.

Calvin ruffles his feathers and lowers his head. He takes a step towards Newt and Newt’s mother gets her wand out of the pocket of her breeches.

It’s so quiet. Newt can hear the creak of the pines, and what he thinks might be the muted trill of a doxie, and his own heart beating.

And then three things happen at once: He hears hurried footsteps and then a jolly but hushed, “Hullo, Mother. Everything all right?” At the same time, someone comes up from behind and picks him up. The someone turns so Newt can’t see the hippogriff anymore.

Newt relaxes because it’s Thee, though it’s not Thee who’s holding him. It’s a boy about Thee’s age with dark hair and black eyes.

“Theseus,” Newt’s mother sighs. “Thank Minerva.”

Thee comes to stand by Newt and the boy. “Don’t tell me—he was supposed to stay in his room.”

“He had a cold. Take him back to the house, please.”

The boy is already inching step by step towards the big gate; he shifts Newt to his other arm and then looks down at him. “Are you okay?” he whispers.

Newt nods.

The boy gives Newt an odd smile and then rubs the damp away from under his eyes with his thumb. “It’s all right,” he whispers.

Newt nods again. The boy’s black wool coat smells of cigarettes and something that Newt can only identify as air _._

When they get to the gate, the boy turns and Newt finally sees Calvin again. Calvin’s feathers are smooth and he’s no longer looking at Newt like he wants to eat him.

“He’s safe, Mother,” Thee says.

“I’ll be in shortly for proper introductions.” Newt’s mother replies, putting her wand away. “There’s tea, if you boys are hungry.”

“We are,” Thee answers, and then, with sudden formality, he bows low. Calvin makes a rough purring sound and bows back.

“Come on,” Thee whispers as he joins Newt and the boy. Once they’re through and the gate is locked, Thee sighs and shakes Newt’s arm.

“What were you thinking?” Thee says. “You know Mother is only allowed inside when she’s got a hatchling.” He lets go of Newt’s arm. “You’re lucky we found you. You can thank Great-grandfather Arsenios and Elspeth for that.”

“It’s rude to look at them that way,” the boy adds, his voice no longer a whisper.

“I know,” Newt says, frowning because he _does_ know—he really isn’t a baby, no matter what Theseus always says. He pushes back a little so he can see more of the boy, “You sound funny.”

Thee grins. “That’s because he’s American,” he says, adding to the boy, “you can put him down, you know.”

The boy shrugs and shifts Newt to his hip. “That’s okay. He’s not heavy and we’re here, anyway.”

They are, stepping from the cool of the woods to the lea that runs behind the house. Nanny Elspeth is watching from the third floor window. When she sees them, she throws her hands up and disappears. Newt feels bad because he frightened her. He likes Nanny Elspeth—she tells him stories of fairies and pixies and leprechauns.

The boy puts Newt down and asks, “Sure you’re okay?”

Newt stares up at the boy. The boy’s eyes aren’t black, but a very dark brown, just like eyes of the wood nymph that lives in the tree near the old forester’s hut. Somehow the sight makes Newt confused and he doesn’t answer.

“That’s right,” Thee says as he turns to the house. “He saves your life and now you’re shy?”

Newt frowns and follows, scuffing his slipper on the thyme that grows wild. “I am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not.”

Theseus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of muggle cigarettes. “Are, too.”

“Am not and I’m telling Mother.”

Cigarette in mouth, Thee pauses. He looks back at Newt. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Would, too. Father says they’re bad for you.”

Thee glares at Newt but he puts the cigarettes away. “Come on,” he says to the boy. “I’ll show you my room.”

The boy starts to follow but then he turns. Bowing low, just like Thee had done to Calvin, he holds out his hand. “Percival Gondulphus Graves, at your service.”

Straightening up, trying to be as elegant, Newt takes the boy’s hand. “Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” he says, stumbling a little on parts because he’s never said his whole name to anyone before.

The boy—Percival—smiles and says, “It’s good to meet you, Newton. You were very brave back there.”

Newt starts to tell the boy that no one except Mother and Father calls him ‘Newton,’ but before he can, Thee shouts from the French doors, “Perce! Are you coming or what?”

With another smile and a wink, Percival drops Newt’s hand.

The sun hot on the back of his neck, Newt watches as Percival strolls across the terrace and into the house.

 

 

_fin._

  
 


	2. Nine Minus One-Eighth

Nine Minus One-Eighth

 

“That many?” Mother says as Newt carries the scrolls and books into the library.

“Of course,” Newt answers, setting the load on the settee. “He asked if I had any information on dragons for his magical creature’s class.”

“Yes, but perhaps Percival won’t want to study while he’s on holiday.” Mother descends the ladder. “Perhaps he’ll want to swim and play.”

“He can’t swim and play all the time,” Newt says firmly because it’s true—playing is all well and good, but his books on dragons are brand new and full of colorful illustrations. Besides, when Percy said, _‘I might not graduate if I can’t get through this class, Thee. It’s beyond boring,’_ Newt knew he had to do something even though Percy’s complaint had been directed at Theseus and Newt had been merely spying. His logic, confused and indefinite, ran along the lines that if Percy wasn’t in school, he wouldn’t be making overseas trips on behalf of that school. ‘“Mother?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to look for the wood nymph again. Can I take Percy with me?”

Mother moves the ladder to the shelf that holds her shade botanicals and says, “I’m sure the nymph is gone, Newt. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her all season.” She climbs the ladder.

He rubs the toe of his boot on his shin. He’s been growing again and his shoes always hurt. “But maybe she is. She likes me, I know it. Last time, she let me draw her nest. At least the outside of it. She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Pruning the leaves off the nightshade plant, Mother gives him a distracted smile. “I’m sure you’re right, darling, but don’t be disappointed if she’s not there.”

“I won’t,” Newt assures her. And then, rubbing his shin again, he asks, “So I may take Percy?”

Mother doesn’t answer for a moment and then she sets her sheers down and comes off the ladder again. She removes her gloves and takes Newt’s hand and then leads him over to the loveseat. They sit side by side. “Newt,” she says, “I was talking with Mrs. Evander the other day. Her grandsons are staying at her house for the summer. The boys are five and seven and I was wondering if you’d like to get to know them? Trudy—Mrs. Evander—says they enjoy animals and reading. Just like you.”

“Mother,” Newt says. “I’m eight and seven-eighths. That’s almost nine. They’re babies.”

“Nine and seven aren’t that far apart. I’m sure Broderick will enjoy your Witchaway game and your new encyclopedia.”

“Mother—”

“Newt,” Mother says, patting his leg. “I told Mrs. Evander we’d be over at eleven so we’re going. Now, go clean up and make sure you scrub under your fingernails. They’re black from the bulrushes you were collecting.”

Newt firms his jaw but Mother doesn’t move. “Newton Artemis…” she says after a moment and with only a slight warning.

He tries to hold on but eventually he hangs his head and mutters, “All right.”

Mother pats his leg again and then rises. “Mary pressed your suit; it’s on your bed.”

Newt gathers up the scrolls and books and stomps off. He may have to go play with the babies, but no one is going to make him like it.

On the way upstairs, he hears a shout of laughter from outside. He pauses on the landing and then sets his armload on the wide window ledge. He climbs up and turns the window crank. It whines and complains and refuses to open. Newt murmurs, _‘Alohomora,’_ a spell he’s been practicing and not quite getting. But today he’s in luck because the metal whines and the window swings open. He leans out.

Down below, running around on the green, Theseus and Percy are playing with their bats. They’re swatting a play snitch back and forth and laughing each time the other misses. Percy has removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. A curl of thick black hair has fallen over his forehead.

“Newt!” Mother calls from the library. “No dawdling!”

Grumbling once more, Newt jumps off the ledge and picks up the reading material.

***

The day is as dull and frustrating as Newt thought it might be. Braxton Evander just wants to run around sing at the top of his lungs and Broderick is unpleasant. When Newt tells him that he’s going to tame a dragon one day, Broderick says, ‘ _And then we can skin it and sell its hide. My cousin says dragon hide is perfect for wands.’_

Outraged, Newt says, _‘That’s barbaric and if you ever try to hurt a dragon, I’m going to stop you.’_ Broderick’s face turns red and he grabs his little brother’s hand and they run off. Newt goes to the drawing room where his mother is having tea with Mrs. Evander. He stands in the doorway and says he’s ready to go.

***

Mother insisted on taking the Muggle train to the Evander’s and she insists on returning on it, no matter how much Newt begs her otherwise. He’s got a notion—formed as he waited for his mother on the Evander’s stoop—that Percy will have gone home unexpectedly. The notion gathers strength as the train travels south and by the time it pulls into the station with a shudder and a jerk, Newt’s stomach is somehow hurting with an odd curl of odd pain.

_‘Percy’s still here,’_ he assures himself as he climbs into the gig and Mother takes the reins. _‘He won’t have left.’_

Still, he’s not quite sure and when they arrive at the house and Mother stops by to the stables, he’s out of the gig in a flash, running around to the back off the house, ignoring his mother’s call. The gravel-covered path is shaded from the tall lindens and oaks and pines. The darkness cools his hot face as he races around the _Myrica gale_ and the baby South American _Aloysia triphylla_ that Mother just transplanted.

He hears them before he sees them and he skids to a halt next to the statue of Aunt Hypatia. They’re sitting on the veranda, just around the corner of the house. Theseus is laughing about something and when Percy answers, his voice is too soft and too deep for Newt to make out what he says.

Newt sighs. So, yes, Percy is still here and has not gone back to America. Yes, Percy will go with him to look for the nymph and want to read about dragons and maybe even discuss them because he has to graduate from his American school and Newt can help wi—

A stern _‘Eh, em,’_ startles Newt out of his thoughts. He looks up. The statue is glaring down at him. “Oh,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “I’m sorry, Aunt Hypatia.”

She shakes her head and then resumes her normal position, that of staring serenely over the Scamander grounds.

Chastised, Newt brushes off the seat of his pants and then sets off for the veranda, the odd curl of odd pain already fading.

_fin._


	3. Eleven and Seven-Twelfths

Eleven and Seven-Twelfths

 

“ _‘In accordance with Veritable Peruvian Standards, the sun is to be at its zenith before the match can commence,’_ ” Newt reads, frowning a little because he’d never heard of Veritable Peruvian Quidditch Standards before.

“What does that mean?” Tabitha Binns says, leaning against Newt’s arm to read as well.

“It has to mean that they’re going to start when the sun is at its highest point in the sky,” Newt answers, struggling to read the rest. The program doesn’t want to be read and keeps switching languages and trying to curl up. It’s very frustrating.

“Let me,” says someone over his shoulder. Newt turns. And then blinks in surprise because he knows this man though they’ve never formally met. His name is Albus Something Or Other Dumbledore—Newt has never quite gotten the whole thing—and he’s been to the house in Northumbria twice and London once, all three times for one of Theseus’s parties. Theseus calls him ‘professor,’ though he’s not really a professor. Newt thinks it’s just Thee being Thee.

Mr. Dumbledore is older than Theseus. Newt isn’t quite sure how much but he thinks it’s a bit. Mr. Dumbledore is also a bit of a mystery. Newt overheard his parents talking after one of Mr. Dumbledore’s visits. His mother said something about the ‘Incident’ and how, ‘ _The boy really should have known better.’_ Newt never found out what his father said in return because just then Theseus found him crouched by the potted _Sorbus aucuparia_ and dragged him away by his ear, saying eavesdroppers never learned anything good about anything and he better go check on his yearling murtlap as it had gotten out of its tank again.

Mr. Dumbledore makes Newt nervous. Without knowing how, Newt thinks he’s probably the smartest wizard he knows. Maybe it’s because Mr. Dumbledore has several portraits hanging on several walls in Hogwarts and that’s a lot for someone who isn’t a professor or dead. Maybe it’s because everyone treats him with respect, even Headmaster Dippet, even mostly Thee.

Newt—hoping his nervousness isn’t obvious—hands Mr. Dumbledore the program with a, “Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Dumbledore says. He waves his wand over the paper. It squeals and whines but finally uncurls and stays flat. He gives it back to Newt. “You’re Theseus Scamander’s brother, aren’t you?” He smiles at Tabitha and bows. “And you’re Miss Tabitha Binns, daughter of Felicia and Reginald Binns?”

Newt nods a yes. Tabitha does the same but also grins shyly.

Mr. Dumbledore turns to Newt. “Are you here to see your brother play in the all-star match?”

“Yes, sir,” Newt says only to be interrupted by Tabitha, “Newt, you big fibber. You said you wanted to see the American play, the American that Mavis Hargroves is mad about.”

Newt is furious with Tabitha and he scowls. “His name is Percy and he’s my brother’s best friend.” The schedule takes the opportunity to curl up again and he flattens it out, also again. “He’s the best chaser in America. My brother said so.”

“He _was_ the best chaser,” Tabitha argues. “He’s not even in school anymore.”

“None of the all-star players are in school anymore, Miss Binns,” Mr. Dumbledore says. “That’s the point of an exhibition.”

Tabitha’s smug expression turns sour and Newt doesn’t smile though he wants to. He’s not too fond of Tabitha and he’s fairly certain she feels the same about him. It’s a common occurrence, the other students not liking him. He’s been at Hogwarts for twenty-one days and already he’s noticed that the other students keep clear of him. He’s not sure how he feels about it. He thinks he doesn’t mind. Hogwarts is chock full of interesting books and even more interesting creatures so it’s all right if he’s alone most of the time.

That said (an expression he just learned that has proved useful on more than a few occasions) when he learned of Percy and Thee’s arrival via Mother’s last owl, he felt the weight of the loneliness slough off like a firesnake’s first moult. He spent the next days in a happy mood, planning and organizing. He’s not—he assures himself more than a few times—going overboard, as Thee calls it. He’s just being smart because planning is smart.

He’s also eager to talk with Percy. He has so many questions and thoughts and he’s sure Percy can answer them.

Currently, one of the most pressing involves a portrait of a man named Gondulphus Caradoc Graves that hangs in the _Archaic Practices of the Ancient Auguries_ section of the library _._ The section is almost as narrow as Newt and about as long. Its shelves hold rows of moldy, decaying tomes, scrolls, and miscellanea. Painted in 1435 when Gondulphus was fairly young, maybe in his early twenties, the picture dangles off a crooked nail on the wall at the end of the aisle. It’s a small, simple painting of the non-magical variety, and the subject stares out at the viewer with a calm, steady gaze.

Ever since he found it, Newt has visited it a few times, wishing it _were_ magical, wishing he could talk to it. He wants to know so very badly if Percy is the young man’s relative. He wants to know why the Graves family left England and traveled all the w—

Someone grabs his robe, someone complains, “Newt!”

He blinks and then smiles. Tabitha is watching him with another scowl. “Sorry. What?”

Tabitha hmphs and says, “It’s eleven fifty-one. I told you three times.”

“Sorry,” Newt says again even though he’s not. While he was thinking, Mr. Dumbledore has returned to his seat down the row and is sitting next to Professor Angelica Trelawney. “I was—”

He’s interrupted once more, this time by the noise of the crowd. The players have arrived and are flying in. One by one, they take their positions at the opposite ends of the field.

It’s quite easy to tell Percy from the others. He’s next to Theseus near the center. His flying uniform is a dark blue, not red or gold. He’s also the only player to not wear shin pads. Newt isn’t sure if that’s a Percy habit or an American custom. Just then Percy looks over and waves.

Heart in his throat and confused because how could Percy see that far, Newt is about to wave back when he realizes that, no, Percy isn’t waving at him but at Mr. Dumbledore. Mr. Dumbledore smiles and waves back.

So Percy knows Mr. Dumbledore. Newt isn’t sure why but the knowledge doesn’t make him happy.

He frowns down at the schedule. The writing has now changed to Spanish but that’s all right because he’s more interested in the line of photographs that have appeared along the bottom. They’re pictures of the players—the one of Percy is on the far right. Like the portrait in the library, Percy is gazing out at the viewer. Unlike the portrait in the library, Percy’s lips are bent as if he’s about to smile and only just remembered to not to.

So, yes, it doesn’t matter that Percy knows Mr. Dumbledore. Percy probably knows a lot of Theseus’s acquaintances. It doesn’t matter and there will be a moment, maybe even a handful of them, when Newt will have his chance to ask his questions because Percy and Thee are going to be at Hogwarts for the entire weekend.

But he’s still frowning, just a little, when Headmaster Dippet gets to his feet and calls out via his wand megaphone, _“Good afternoon and welcome…”_

***

The match is a shutout, one of the shortest on record according to a very loud third year sitting in the stands nearby. Percy and Theseus play exceptionally well. It’s Theseus that ends the match, catching the snitch in a stunning spiral fall. With the crowd still cheering, he holds it aloft and then with a grin, lets it go. The crowd roars and claps and then everyone gets up to leave.

Tabitha isn’t happy that the event was so short. Now, she says, she has to go to the library to finish her paper on gillyweed. Newt is following her silently while watching Percy and Theseus from the side of his eye. The players have congregated by a goalpost, clearly talking about the game. Nearby, some of the older girls are clustered at the rail, waving the various players’ school colors. One of the girls calls out and Thee, of course, flies over to chat her up. The rest, including Percy, do the same.

Newt sighs. There will be no way of speaking to Percy now—no doubt he and Thee and everyone else will spend the next hours at the Three Broomsticks with their admirers. But later…

“I’ll come with you,” he says absently and unexpectedly. “I’ve got to look up a translation.”

Tabitha doesn’t answer and Newt glances at her. Tabitha is frowning, almost glaring. She mutters something too low for Newt to hear, ending with, “…no better than she should be.”

Newt follows her gaze. A section down, a girl is trailing after the spectators. The girl is wearing a pink wool coat over her uniform and has a pink ribbon in her hair. The ribbon’s ends float and ripple as if alive.

Newt has seen the girl about, of course. Her name is Leta Lestrange. She’s got dark skin and dark, flyaway hair that always catches the breeze. Even twenty-one days in, Newt had recognized her for what she is, a fellow outsider. “She’s all right,” he says under his breath.

“You’ve heard the stories of her family, haven’t you?” Tabitha answers.

“No,” Newt says, and then adds because he’s fairly certain that Tabitha is telling a fib and fibs are wrong. “And you haven’t either, Tabitha.”

Tabitha stops short, her cheeks turning a mottled red. “You don’t have to be so mean, Newton Scamander. I wasn’t mean to you.”

“I— I’m sorry.”

Tabitha sniffs. “It’s because my mother told me to stay away from Leta. She said—” Tabitha hesitates and if possible, her cheeks redden even more. But she doesn’t add anything other than, “Anyway, I’m not supposed to talk to her and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t, either.”

Newt wants to say more but Mavis Hargroves, the one that has a crush on Percy, has pushed her way through the swarm of girls and is leaning against the rail. She smiles up at Percy. Mavis is a seventh-year with ginger colored hair that tumbles down her back like a curly waterfall. Even Newt thinks she’s pretty. Percy must think so, too, because with a grin and an outstretched arm, he takes Mavis’s hand and pulls her onto the broom in front of him. The broom bobs with the extra weight. Mavis shrieks in what is clearly mock terror and flings her arms around Percy’s neck. The other players laugh and in a moment, they’re all gone, heading south, probably towards Hogsmeade.

“Newt?”

Newt looks over at Tabitha. If he were allowed to fly, if he had his own broomstick, he’d follow Percy and Thee, no matter what anyone said. But he can’t so he shrugs under the weight of his school robes and says, “We better go. The library closes early today because of the Waterplants Festival.”

***

So much for plans and arrangements, Newt thinks as Thee’s owl swoops through the library’s open window. He should have known better, of course, but it was still a blow, the news that Theseus and Percy have already left for London. It shouldn’t, of course, be a blow. He should have known.

But he doesn’t say anything to Tabitha who’s peeping at him from around the teetering stack of books that she’s not reading. He’s not sure why but he doesn’t want her to know how disappointed he is; she has as few friends as he—if she even _were_ to tell, there’d really be no one to tell _to_ even though there’s truly nothing to tell.

So he pulls his book closer—Madame Fontaine’s seventeenth and one half translation of Cornelius Agrippa’s _Zauber und Verzauberungen—_ and doesn’t sigh.

***

Five minutes before the library closes, Newt whispers to Tabitha that he’s going to put his books back on the shelves. It takes him all of ten seconds and then without hesitation, he tiptoes to the _Archaic Practices of the Ancient Auguries_ section.

He stands before the portrait, suddenly miserable.

He knows something is wrong. He’s read Doctor Dorothea Smythe-Porter’s slim volume, _Magicks and the Mind._ He knows that every young wizard and witch has an adjustment period while their own powers, as Doctor Smythe-Porter puts it, begin to manifest. But he doesn’t think that is what this is, and that, he supposes, is the problem—he doesn’t _understand_ what is going on inside his own mind and the lack of understanding is confusing.

He just knows the presence of another wizard shouldn’t make him so happy, just as the lack of that presence shouldn’t make him so sad. He also knows that he thinks about Percy too much, that he sometimes feels sick when he pictures Percy’s face or his smile. Even now, all he has to do is summon that overused memory of the summer before, of Percy laughing as he drops into one of Mother’s new wicker chairs after racing Theseus up the terrace steps at the house in Yorkshire, and his stomach flips and curls and—

“Newt?”

It’s Tabitha, whispering so loudly she might as well be shouting.

Not wanting Tabitha to see the portrait, Newt quickly edges down the aisle. He meets Tabitha by the statue of Linnaeus Ollivander and then stomps after her, still silent, still miserable.

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> While I finish the sequel to Ignis et Diluvium, I thought I'd post some very short Newt POV stories. They won't be posted in any order (in terms of Newt's age) and I'll probably rewrite them as I go.


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